


Sofa Sirens

by philomel



Category: Video Blogging & YouTube RPF
Genre: Awkwardness, Drunkenness, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:51:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which sofas secretly contain mythological creatures that make YouTubers do things to each other. Yep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sofa Sirens

The heat comes off his skin, fever bright. Like walking into the sunlight after leaving the cinema, head swimming and vision washed out. There's alcohol on his breath, he thinks, spice and citrus. It's what they've both been drinking. The taste is in Phil's mouth. He wonders if they taste the same.

And it's that simple, the way it hits him. 

Wanting to taste. And then, wanting Dan. Knowing he's been wanting this, or something like it, for a while. Months? Years? No point in calculating now, because those moments are back there, unreachable. Meanwhile, Dan is right here.

Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, they claim the middle of the sofa, leaving the ends unoccupied. Perfectly good arms to rest on, comfortable corners to settle into. And yet, they end up here, almost every time. It fits them now, recognizing their combined shape, and luring them in. 

_Sofa sirens_ , Phil thinks, and starts singing under his breath, wordless nonsense, in a ridiculous high-pitched voice. 

Dan's gaze slides slowly toward Phil, an eyebrow raising in tandem. 

Phil quirks his mouth and shrugs.

"What?" they both say at the same time — Dan's tone flat, more statement than question, and Phil's bordering on squeaky.

Dan laughs. That back-of-the-throat, hiccoughing laughter that makes his belly jump, his eyes closing tight and crinkling at the edges. His head falls back against the top of the sofa, lolling left, exposing his neck.

There's no resisting it. Phil leans in quick and lets the tip of his nose graze Dan's long neck. 

Instantly, Dan curls up like a hedgehog, shoulder and hand going up for protection. 

Phil curls too, overlapping Dan like a second layer. He hides his smile against Dan’s forearm, fingers latching onto his ankle, dragging his sock down and finding purchase with warm skin against skin and jutting bone. He catches the end of some curse-filled tirade — _bastard_ and _motherfucking turnip_ lobbed at him. It's a bit unconvincing when it's coming out with breathless giggling. 

"It's not my fault," Phil says. "You can't have a neck like that and expect people not to touch it." He reaches up, not even intending anything, just reaching.

Dan swats at his hand. "Sadist."

"What about your ears?" Phil says, fingertips landing on Dan's forehead. "Errr."

"Yeah, I decided to put them somewhere else."

Phil keeps his eyes closed, face still pressed into Dan's arm. He lets Dan guide him toward his ear, long fingers wrapped all the way around Phil's wrist, gentle, not gripping. 

"See?" Dan says. And Phil thumbs along the curve of Dan's ear, feeling its contours through the soft hair covering it. He plays with the piercing, feeling the contrast of cool plastic and downy lobe. But when his fingers brush just beneath it, Dan's doubling over again, clutching at Phil's hand and dragging him along. 

Dan's sideways on the sofa now, Phil mostly on top of him. Phil can feel him shaking with laughter, feels the ways they jolt against each other, ricocheting laughter back and forth. Dan lets go of Phil's wrist, sinks his fingers into Phil's hair.

The urge to fuss and fix it is habitual, but Phil holds back. Dan's fingers push against Phil's scalp, the mildest friction, slow and soothing. And Phil's hand — having been mid-air, staying where Dan left it — gives in to gravity, grabbing onto the first thing it touches. Dan's stomach. With his shirt rucked up, Phil slips his fingers into the folds of cloth, his little finger finding the exposed flesh of Dan's belly, finding it irresistible to shape circles there. 

It's quiet now. 

Not truly, with the television chattering and voices and alarms and traffic outside, footsteps in the hall. Phil hears none of that. For him, there's the low _shush_ of Dan playing with his hair: fingers sliding up to the ends and letting it drop back down, only to scoop in again and repeat the motion. He could fall asleep to this. But he's wide awake, testing Dan's willingness to be explored, waiting for him to push away. The pad of his finger has gone from drawing circles on Dan's stomach to circling his bellybutton, catching the elastic of his pants with every downward stroke. He dips under the band and stops. This is all Dan could possibly allow.

Phil waits, heart hammering, breath held. Nothing has stopped but him. This is confusing. 

If he simply opens his eyes, looks up, he can read Dan's face and know what's really going on. And it will be Dan staring at him with that implicit underscore of _Phil, you idiot._ And they'll move apart and someone will go for a piss and the other will set up a game of Skyrim and everything will return to the way it always is.

Phil feels his hair combed through again and again. Then, a light tug. _Up_ , it says.

He lifts his head, releasing a rush of breath. Mouth open, eyes squeezed tight, he gives in to Dan's direction. He waits to be discarded. Yet he allows the tiniest sliver of hope to creep in, light through the cracks. There's a quickening darkness beyond his drawn lids. He's aware of Dan's breath, closer, and Dan's hand, stilled and cupping the back of his head. There's room for a little more hope before it happens.

It goes a bit wrong. 

Dan's bottom lip catches on Phil's upper teeth. And Phil keeps his mouth hanging open like a dead fish, thinking he should have done _something_ , retroactively. 

Then he tilts his head. Dan must have tilted his head too, because it's almost the same thing, only at a different angle. But it's less teeth and more lips. And Dan does taste of citrus and spice. And a little bit of chicken and garlic. But that's okay. It's slippery, and Phil wishes his salivary glands would just take a break. Also, his neck feels twisted round too much. But there's all this soft skin to chase. All this newness. He moves toward it. 

The fit is perfect, not perfect, then perfect again. It's the best fit he's found yet.

Hand splayed wide over Dan's lower torso, Phil risks more. He curls his hand into a loose fist, pushes the heel downward, knuckles hovering over the metal of the belt buckle, then denim. With Dan's legs folded, it's awkward. But Dan opens them just enough for Phil to get between them. The heat is unbelievable. Phil's palm is sweaty as he relaxes his fingers and lays his hand over Dan.

Air fills his mouth and he opens his eyes, almost startled to realize how close Dan's face is — as if they hadn't just been kissing. It takes a second to focus the blurred view: shut eyes and swollen lips gone red and shiny like something to sink your teeth in. Dan's flushed cheeks are a shock against his olive skin. Phil leans in and rests his lips over the round of one cheek. It's hot to the touch, makes Phil want to try out every part of Dan to test the variation of warmth. He thinks of all that heat filling his mouth, and his hand begins to rub slowly between Dan's legs. 

" _Fuck._ " Dan rolls his head against Phil's, nose dragging up along the side of his face, burrowing into Phil's hair.

Phil rubs harder, bites his lip as he adjusts his arm for a better angle. Dan's hips begin to move, threatening to throw Phil off if he doesn't follow. He does, finding some relief in the movement, though it's closer to a tease. He touches Dan the way he would touch himself.

Dan's panting and bucking and Phil's losing himself in it all, driving Dan mad, driving himself madder. He buries his face in the crook of Dan's neck.

There's a thump as Dan's leg thrashes out, then a rumble of something rattling around, then the unmistakable shattering of glass.

Phil finds himself half on the floor. 

Dan's balled up on the sofa, face squashed into the cushion.

"Jesus Christ," Dan says, voice muffled and low.

Phil looks at the broken bottle on the floor and says, "Ow." But he's uninjured, and a quick once-over of Dan tells him they both made it through this unscathed. He does a little shimmy of victory, rocking the sofa and making Dan bounce. It's an absurd image: Dan's hands tucked near his head, his arse in the air. His belt has failed him once again, and Phil can see the dark line of the space between his cheeks beneath the thin cotton pants. Phil's smile turns. Without a second thought, he traces a finger down the middle of Dan's backside, the fabric taut as he presses in.

Dan groans, another curse or simply a sound. 

He doesn't move, and Phil hooks his finger into the waistband, pulling it with him as he trails his finger lightly between the crack of Dan's arse. With the belt hindering his progress, he wiggles his fingers far enough to stroke at Dan's perineum, feel the tightened swell of Dan's sac, damp with sweat. He retracts his finger, dragging a knuckle over Dan's hole deliberately.

There's another groan, and when Phil looks at Dan, Dan's doing his best to look back at him. 

"Are you fucking serious?" he says.

Phil's eyebrows pull together. 

Dan flails a hand outward, indicating the mess on the floor.

"Maybe the mice will clean it up," Phil says.

Dan stares at him for a long moment. Then his eyes crinkle and betray him. "Ughh," he says. He sags against the back of the sofa, shifting to turn over. Phil slides onto the floor to give him room. "Literally, _ugh_."

"Literally?" Phil says, watching Dan attempt to stand up with his pants and jeans and belt binding his legs together. He looks down to make sure Dan's clear of any glass as he hops to his feet. When he looks back up, Dan is fumbling at his belt. Dan sighs as he unfastens it successfully. His jeans slip farther down, and the pink head of his cock pokes over the edge of his pants. It's wet with precome. Phil watches, daring not to blink, as Dan undoes his flies and pushes his pants down past his hips. His cock is long and thick, the hair around it lighter than Phil would have expected. Dan's fingers play along the underside, thumb swiping along the glans. Phil tenses.

There's a tighter grip and a full stroke, Dan's hand wrapping completely around himself. Phil thinks of how it would wrap around him, how it could hold both of them, together.

"What am I going to do with you?" Dan says.

Phil raises his head. "What?" 

Dan is impossibly tall from here. Phil gets up on shaky legs. Standing, he still has to look up to meet Dan's eyes. He hasn't quite gotten used to that yet.

" _What_ exactly," Dan says, slipping a hand under Phil's shirt and tugging on his shorts. 

He shuffles backward and Phil goes with him.

They stagger gracelessly for several paces. It's utterly undignified, and Dan slumps back against the wall as soon as they clear the lounge. He rolls his eyes and huffs, childlike in his mortification. 

Phil brushes Dan's hair back and kisses his forehead. He can feel Dan begin to relax. "You think too much," he tells him, kissing an eyelid.

"Well, yeah." Dan's mouth twists, and Phil kisses the upturned corner. 

Phil pulls back, taking in Dan's face — drowsy lids, darker eyes. The tip of his tongue tracks where Phil just kissed him.

Phil licks the corner of his own lips, mirroring. 

Then Dan's hands are between them, freeing Phil from his shorts and pants enough to fit his fingers around him. Phil swallows hard, reaches out for Dan. His cock throbs in Phil's hand. Digging his fingers into the crease of his hip, he can feel Dan's pulse there too. When he cradles Dan's balls, they are tight, and Phil wonders if he can make this last. He wonders if he can resist the desperate need to see Dan come. He wonders what his chances are of getting to take more time later, and decides the odds are rather good.

Dan's lips find Phil's, and Phil follows his lead, deepening the kiss as Dan does, jerking harder to keep time with him. 

Soon, he can't feel his own lips anymore, lost in the skin and heat.

Phil's fingers swivel around the head of Dan's cock, thumb pressing into the spot just beneath the crown. And Dan arches back, head thudding against the wall, neck sweat-slick, hair curling at the edges, his body a long line bowed and about to break. When he comes, his fist squeezes Phil's cock hard and Phil shouts and comes sooner than he wanted.

The rush sends him swaying forward.

Resting his head against Dan's shoulder, Phil lets Dan toy with the slit of his cock, teasing a few more drops of come from him until it's too much and he slaps Dan's hand away. 

Dan laughs and nips at Phil's ear. He doesn't flinch away when Phil draws him closer, despite the stickiness of his hand on Dan's side, on his shirt, and Phil tallies this as a kind of accomplishment.

"What are you going to do with me now?" Phil says.

Dan nuzzles at his neck for a few seconds, then says: "Shower. Definitely shower."

_So much for small victories_ , Phil thinks. 

But the lure of the shower is pretty strong. 

If only they can manage to get there without falling over or crashing into something first.

**Author's Note:**

> • I don't usually think disclaimers are necessary on this site, as it should be understood that this is all made up.   
> But, because this fic deals with YouTubers and not typical celebrities (whatever that means), I feel the need to be more emphatic about that. So, brace yourself for an obvious statement of obviousness: This is fiction, with fictionalized versions of real people — therefore _not_ real.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, no offense is intended in any way.
> 
>  
> 
> • Beta by raynemaiden. <3  
> 


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